


Not So Simple

by laEsmeralda



Series: Plain Truths [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John reconsiders a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Simple

The past twenty-two minutes had passed quietly in separate studying of plans, John on the computer, Oliver at one of the high steel tables. It gave Oliver a peculiar thrill to know that John was approaching him from behind, and to trust enough not to roll or duck into a defensive stance. A broad hand grasped his left shoulder. 

"Good thing I knew it was you, sidling up like that," Oliver said, still tracing a conduit through the building plans.

The hand slid away. "I don't _sidle_ ," John muttered, but he sounded amused rather than annoyed. "I need to let you know that I told Lyla," he said without preamble. 

Oliver had long ago brazened his way past blushing, hadn't had such a reflex since the first or second time his teen self had been confronted about cheating. But his insides squirmed at the idea. 

"I considered asking your permission, but I decided it was better to know her reaction before I talked with you again."

Oliver sighed. "One less secret between you."

"That's not why I did it." John was close enough that his chest brushed the left side of Oliver's back. His breath drifted against that ear. 

"I take it she didn't throw you out."

"Surprisingly, she understands."

"Not interested in her pity," Oliver replied, bitterly. He started to turn to the next page of plans.

"Idiot. She understands me. What I need."

Oliver froze. It was…unexpected. Pages slipped from his fingers. "Dig. What are you saying? I'm feeling a bit thick here."

John chuckled at the unintended quip. "Since you were brave enough to talk with me about Barry, I decided I was being a coward. Which doesn't suit my sense of myself."

"The last thing you are is a coward."

"Tell me again that there's no way Roy or Felicity can come in here without three minutes loud warning." 

Oliver almost shivered. He was afraid to turn around, to disturb the moment. "There's no way." He could hear John swallow, he was that close.

"Do you still—"  


Oliver let himself relax back, cutting off the question and answering it. John nuzzled into his neck, arms coming around, hands sliding down his belly. Oliver was already hard, his response had begun in the first moments of John's approach. So he didn't rush to say the next thing, luxuriating in the familiar grip, a soldier's comfort. _But_ , his mind nagged, _you know better now, don't you?_

His hands covered John's to still them, moved up the strong forearms as he turned to face the man, nearly nose to nose. "That practical roughness, the time-of-war mythology—you did that for me, didn't you?" He didn't expect an answer. John's eyes were steady, maybe he could detect an extra twinkle there. "So I could accept what I needed." Oliver's hands slipped under the edge of John's shirt, skated along muscular ribs, lifting the cloth away as he separated each button. "I reciprocated, even though you didn't ask it, but I did so matter-of-factly."

"Just cleaning the weapons," Dig quipped, a little smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Yeah. Well. You deserve more than that from me." He ducked and pressed his lips to the broad high-curve of John's chest. "Since we're being courageous." He smoothed his tongue along salty skin and tiny whorls of hair. John's mass and strength were widely regarded as a practical asset. And yet, he never hid tenderness from his team. They all came to him for comfort, compassion. Oliver was suddenly certain that only Felicity had provided that for John in return, and it filled him with regret.

Briefly, a low rumble sounded in that chest. John's hands settled along Oliver's back, keeping him close. "What the hell did the kid do to you?" he murmured.

Oliver didn't lift his mouth far from John's skin. "Utterly failed to spout any macho bullshit. Let me touch him. _Softly_. Like you tried to do that first time. He just _felt_ it all." Oliver's throat tightened. "I insulted you. Made it rough and… perfunctory. But that was a lie." 

"Shhh. It doesn't matter."

Of course, he would say so. Oliver abandoned the spot on John's chest and ambushed his mouth. They had _never_ kissed. He expected to be shoved away. Dig tasted vaguely of homemade vegetable soup and freshly peeled clementine—his charming, paper bag lunch—the oil of the tiny oranges lingering on his lips. It seemed strange to notice that first, rather than the unexpected softness of his mouth, the lush _give_ of it against Oliver's haste. Or the surprised noise easing into a groan. There was no shoving away. To the contrary, there was a fierce pulling in. 

Oliver opened himself to being held, something he always resisted in these encounters, reacting to it as weakness, being trapped. As he softened his body against the other, there was much more contact, more _fit_. John's mouth was gentle, tentative, contrasted with the sudden force of his hands against Oliver's back. Oliver eased off the pressure and tipped his own head back, trying to offer instead of take. John followed rather than lose the kiss, a hand coming up to cradle the back of Oliver's head. Another soft groan preceded a swift movement backing Oliver into the table to keep the clasp of their bodies while his free hand stroked the side of Oliver's face and neck. 

This time, Oliver didn't hide the shudder of pleasure. John's lips moved away. His hand smoothed over Oliver's face, his eyebrows and closed eyelids, nose, cheeks, jaw, lips, so very softly and slowly. The touch tingled all the way down Oliver's spine. He could feel the steady throb of John's pulse at chest and groin. Oliver opened his eyes. "Your honesty," he managed, "has always been something of a shock. I'm just now beginning to catch up." With both hands, he caressed John's face and ears, reveling in the tiny shivers he evoked. He sighed. "I… don't want to do this here. Not this time."

"You can't take me home, and I can't take you home," John replied, ruefully. 

Certainly, Thea couldn't be trusted in the present circumstances. "Yeah, I just want you to know I'd rather do this somewhere nice."

There was that warm smile, full of promise. "Come on. My bunk is better than yours. That thing you call a cot takes spartanism a little far." Oliver nodded and followed John back into the storage area.

They both kept emergency sleeping areas in the bunker, but neither had ever invited the other in for _this_. The encounters had been quick and effective in the showers, on the mats, or against a table or wall. 

There wasn't much privacy in the converted storage cubbies separated by chain link, just blankets hung to dampen light and sound. John's was neat with a metal footlocker and a generous futon on a solid frame. He swung the blanketed gate shut behind them and flicked on a reading light. 

Oliver stripped his own shirt over his head and stepped in, chest to chest, running his hands over Dig's shoulders, peeling the button-down away and off. He whispered along John's neck, "I treasure you and I want to show it. I hope that's okay."

John's palms on his back, holding him close, sufficed to answer. Oliver put into his hands all the care that John had been ready to lavish on him if he had allowed it, that had still slipped through in moments when Oliver had been less guarded—Dig was nothing if not patient. Still breathing along John's neck and throat, Oliver worked off khakis and undershorts, his hands lingering to stroke the deep spinal channel of John's lower back. But Oliver found he could exert less self-control with John's bare cock nudging his belly. 

"Lie down," he murmured. As John did, Oliver bent to roll off his socks and stroke his strong feet one at a time. "Give me your weight," Oliver said. John was holding his own leg up, and Oliver wanted him to relax. John lay on his back, hands resting on his chest, a bemused look on his face as he complied. Finally, Oliver released the second foot back to the blanket. He let himself look at John then, not with the usual furtive glances, but a lingering appraisal of his whole being. Dig let him. Blood beat behind Oliver's vision. He had enjoyed being with Barry physically, even on other levels, but it didn't get to him like this. 

"What?" Dig looked mildly worried.

"Just a question or two for the universe." He quickly got rid of the rest of his own clothing and sat on the edge of the futon. He ran a hand up John's thigh and over his cock, which jumped at his touch. Oliver never described what they were doing, even when the impulse struck him. Usually, what happened between them was mutual in an urgent, grasping manner that just flowed without words. "I'm very much looking forward to putting you in my mouth," he said, looking into John's eyes. 

Dig sucked in a surprised breath. "I… I don't have any condoms here," John said, breathlessly, disappointment evident in his voice. 

"A miniscule risk, but I won't take it all the way there," Oliver replied.

Briefly, John's eyes closed. "Oliver. I'm not much in control at the moment."

It seemed that just maybe, John was trembling, and that was _hot_. "Don't worry," Oliver said, "Just enjoy it. I'll be paying very close attention." And he did just that. He tried to embrace every bit of hot, heavy flesh with mouth and both hands, twisting slowly and gently, listening to John's heaving breaths, tasting his most personal flavor. A hand gripped his thigh and he paid attention to that too as it signaled the ebb and flow of John's hold on the edge. He wanted to push him over, suck him down. But assurances had not been exchanged and Lyla hadn't been consulted, so this was not the time to impose an imbalance of reciprocity. He drew John out slowly, maintaining enough suction and pressure to make it agonizing until the head sprang free. John was panting and had a death-grip on his leg.

Oliver moved up and straddled, settling their hips together. He braced his arms, leaned close to Dig's ear and spoke quietly. "Who knew I'd love sucking your cock?" 

John grabbed two handfuls of Oliver's ass and thrust upward. Now, the urgency was welcome—it wasn't avoidant in the slightest. Oliver drew his face back, his nose sliding along John's, and dipped in for a moment, not too long, just a taste, a reminder to John that they could do _this_ now that he'd gotten over himself. 

John moaned against his mouth, an uncharacteristic sound, and his upthrust threatened to pitch Oliver off. Regaining his balance, Oliver met him equally hard and then said, "Easy, let me."

Dig stilled. Oliver moved smoothly, steadily, their bellies wet with sweat and anticipation, keeping as much contact as possible. He watched John's face, something he'd never done, watched him in the moment they both lost the attempt to prolong the pleasure. 

It seemed ultra silent in the space he found himself afterward. He had slid down next to John, in no hurry to separate. He could feel John's heart again as it quieted, but he couldn't hear it. A big hand was on his head, fingertips moving against his scalp. 

"Oliver."

He heard it although it seemed far away. "John."

"Please remind me to buy Barry a cup of coffee next time we see him. A fancy coffee."

Oliver laughed and then stopped. "This was about you and me."

"Oh, I get that." Then, John sighed. "I'm gonna have to talk with Lyla again."

"Whatever you need." He wouldn't be so presumptuous as to demand to know why.

"This is quite a bit more… intimate than I might have led her to believe we are."

"Oh, sorry."

The hand on his head tightened. "My fault. It isn't about what we do or don't do. It's about how I feel. The whole reason I had to talk with her in the first place is I couldn't seem to do without you. I shouldn't have tried to downplay it."

"Maybe she knows."

"I'm certain she does. But I have to acknowledge it." John propped on an elbow and looked down at Oliver. "You're so tough to read."

"Not for you."

"Yeah, for me too. Thanks for letting me in."

"I'm sorry if what I did with Barry—"

"—You can do whatever the hell you want with Barry. Or anyone else. I just don't want _this_ to stop again."

Oliver smiled a little smugly. "I'm not the one who stopped it."

John sighed. "Yeah. That was my bad."  
*******

In their newfound ease, they had forgotten the lab camera. They had never, ever forgotten it; the feed was always interrupted or edited if they hadn't separately withdrawn to the unmonitored spaces. But this time, conflicted feelings weren't present to remind Oliver. John's protectiveness was temporarily off-duty, so he didn't remember either. Not until much, much later.

Felicity was working alone as she reviewed the feed as a matter of habit, on 5x fast forward. At first, she ignored the familiar figures at work in her peripheral vision but something odd made her look straight on just in time for the kiss to start. She hit a key and froze the screen in HD, heart pounding. She knew she should delete it _right fucking now_. 

"Oh my god," she breathed. Something like jealousy rose up. It dissipated quickly. She had nothing but absolute trust for John. If he was there with Oliver, kissing him back, it was _necessary_. She ran it back to just when Dig stood up. The look on his face… _wow_.

Her fingers hovered over _delete_. A better person would have followed through without hesitation. She marked the beginning time code and blurred-forward until the dark shapes moved off camera toward the storage area. She marked that end-point, and made a clip. She transferred the clip onto an encrypted flash drive. Felicity then let the fast-forward run on the empty lab and logged how much time elapsed before they reappeared on screen and went back to work—forty minutes. 

She drummed her free-hand fingers on the desk while secure-deleting the whole period from the camera records. She checked the backup and deleted the same section there too, scrambling the delete authorization markers so no one could be sure who had done the editing. She pulled the stick and looked at it, sitting there, just a kiss, burning into her palm. A not so simple kiss. Finally, she slipped the stick into her purse. There weren't many perks of this avocation. She sure as hell wasn't missing this one.  
*******


End file.
